


as blood returns and returns to the heart

by isaksara (syailendra)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst with a Happy Ending, Kenma is a king and Kuroo is his lionheart, M/M, Mutual Pining, Presumed Dead, do you love savage kenma? i love savage kenma, not actually dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syailendra/pseuds/isaksara
Summary: “Kuro, you’re in need of medical attention,” Kenma tells him as he approaches. In front of him, Kuroo kneels. Kenma has the completely illogical thought that if he just reached out to touch each of them, he could soothe the wounds and stop the flow of blood. As always, he refrains.“I know.” Kuroo looks up at him with clear eyes unbothered by blood loss. “But won’t you say the words?”
Relationships: Hinata Shouyou & Kozume Kenma, Hinata Shouyou/Kageyama Tobio, Kozume Kenma/Kuroo Tetsurou
Comments: 35
Kudos: 309





	as blood returns and returns to the heart

**Author's Note:**

> I was thinking of Kenma during nationals and then it got out of hand oop... I swear this was just an excuse to have Kuroo swear an oath of fealty to him but somehow it's suddenly 8k words long and now I'm just disappointed in myself again

By the time Kuroo enters the throne room Kenma is ready for him. By this he means he has taken off the golden cloak and the carved leather boots. He has tied his hair. He’s a king who learns his lesson, and learns it quickly.

Merely by inspection, he can tell that there is a wound just below Kuroo’s ribs that overflows past the cloth Kuroo is pressing on it, and when he walks in he is favoring his left leg heavily. Blood drips down from his left arm, leaving gleaming splotches on the floor. Kuroo had never been the kind of commander who could be content with sitting back to supervise.

“Kuro, you’re in need of medical attention,” Kenma tells him as he approaches. In front of him, Kuroo kneels. Kenma has the completely illogical thought that if he just reached out to touch each of them, he could soothe the wounds and stop the flow of blood. As always, he refrains.

“I know.” Kuroo looks up at him with clear eyes unbothered by blood loss. “But won’t you say the words?”

Kenma inhales.

“Lord Tetsurou of House Kuroo, your service has kept Nekoma safe and strong for another day. You have the people’s gratitude.” A pause, as he takes in the iron tang in the air. “I welcome you home.”

Kuroo bows his head low in response, but Kenma knows he’s smiling.

“Now have someone escort you to the hospital,” he commands.

“Yes, Kenma.”

When he goes, Kenma raises a hand and casts a cleaning spell to wipe the stains he’d left behind. He sits back on the throne and closes his eyes, still seeing the red traces. He has never told Kuroo of this. He plans to never do so.

A day later, Kai comes to the throne room. There are bandages winding up his leg, but he seems fine otherwise. Kai Nobuyuki is one of those noblemen who become figures in chronicles and legends—he is kind, honorable, strong. Perfectly lucid. Never insisting to visit Kenma first thing after returning from a battle even though there are other things he should be taking care of first. Hence why he is here and Kuroo is in the hospital, recovering.

“Your Majesty. I am here to deliver my report.”

Kenma smiles at him. “No one else is here, you know.”

“Kenma, then. You’d like to update the maps, right?”

Kenma nods. He moves over so Kai can come and take a look at the scrolls with him. This, too, is another indicator of Kuroo’s condition. Kenma knows Kuroo prefers to give his reports in person; he likes to ask what Kenma thinks, and what Kenma believes to be behind certain occurrences, despite the fact that Kenma has never been with him on the front lines since he was crowned. With Kai it is a straightforward, one-way procedure. He changes the charts and Kenma devises the next step.

“I’m going to the hospital for a check-up. Would you like to come with me?” Kai offers.

Kenma murmurs his assent. But first.

“Lord Nobuyuki of House Kai,” he says. Kai looks startled, probably because Kenma didn’t give him the time to kneel. “Your service has kept Nekoma safe and strong for another day. You have the people’s gratitude. The Kingdom of Nekoma welcomes you home.”

Kai bows deeply, in perfect form. They head out.

* * *

There are two types of kings in this world: those who were born wanting to be kings, and those who weren’t. The trouble with Kenma is that he belongs in the latter, without showing signs of ever changing. Dive into this branch and you can divide the populace further. 

Hence one of Kuroo’s troublesome questions: how do you feel about the crown, when you do not want it? This is a deceptively simple question. It might seem easy to say, of course anyone would be upset about it.

Kenma had not thought about the question until Kuroo asked him once. This was not long after Kuroo’s father had died, and Nekomata had gone to Kenma to tell him this: now was the time when it all had to start coming together. They summoned Haiba Lev and Inuoka Sou back from their training in Karasuno. They summoned Yaku Morisuke and Fukunaga Shouhei back from Itachiyama. Kuroo had come back from Fukurodani for the funeral. But he had never gone away for very long stretches of time anyway.

“It’s probably counterproductive to stay upset,” he’d answered, after a moment of thought. It was true that Kenma might like to be a scribe, writing down tales of heroism. He might like to be a smith, forging swords for knights. It wasn’t like he could ever be those things.

“Kenma.” Kuroo had half-smiled at him in his particular way. He had grown up different—a little surer of himself, which Kenma approved of. A little more mischievous, no doubt as a result of Prince Koutarou’s influence. “But how do you feel about it?”

“I’ll let you know when it matters.”

It was all Kenma had to say about it. He did not think about the question again.

Back when the old guard (Kuroo’s father, Lev’s mother, and all the rest) had been complete, Kenma had first made the connection between Nekoma’s location by the sea and Sarukawa’s profound existential anxiety. Nekomata had commended Kenma for it as Kuroo’s eyes grew wide as saucers. 

“What’s all this, then?” This was Yaku, leaning forward with interested eyes.

Kuroo had gathered them all in a small hall next to Kenma’s room. Kenma took stock of them. Taketora and Shouhei, whose families had the best armies in Nekoma. Yaku, whose family enabled the movements of the kingdom. Haiba Lev, whose older sister already knew the sea like the back of her hand at the age of seventeen.

“If Nekoma is going to remain standing, we’re going to have to be a lot stronger. All of us will have to do our parts,” Kuroo said. “Right, Kenma?”

They were young. Even when they got older, it was unlikely they would ever be able to match the sheer magic force held by Fukurodani and Itachiyama. However. Kenma thought of the incredible discipline House Fukunaga was able to enforce. The ease of movement of House Yaku. The mountains beyond House Inuoka’s lands.

“I think this is what we should do,” Kenma started, willing his voice not to shake. Beaming, Kuroo beckoned for them to listen.

* * *

Kenma looks at the maps. He looks again.

There are several ways things could go. He thinks of Sarukawa’s habits and capabilities, then thinks some more. He reviews the technology of their arms and the state of their mage divisions. He checks their supply lines. They say the job of the king is to make decisions, but in reality Kenma believes it is more of an information-gathering endeavor. He does not believe in making decisions. He believes in having the relevant data. Data acts as a razor. It shaves off the improbable and highlights what is possible. The king is merely a container for all the data his subjects can gather in service of their common goal.

Kenma looks at the maps. There is one way things could go.

His mother used to say something Kenma thought of as profoundly arrogant: “Act as though your hands are those of destiny.” Kenma’s mother also made it her business to stare at maps. “Only deliver the inevitable.”

There was one time the Kozume bloodline deviated from this principle: it was when grandfather granted the lands that now belong to Sarukawa to the insurgent House of Shishio, out of some charity or hope for long-lasting goodwill—Kenma’s mother had protested it at the time, but she had been Princess and grandfather had been King. Kenma thinks that, when it comes to the natural competition between father and heir, his grandfather has to forfeit this round. Look where it got them.

It got them to this point, where Kenma is staring at a map, and he knows what Sarukawa plans to do. Grandfather is dead, having exhausted the ability of his body years ago. Mother is dead, poisoned by a Sarukawa spy Kenma caught in two days. Kenma is alive to deliver the inevitable.

It was not arrogance in his mother’s voice back then, Kenma realizes. It was resignation.

* * *

What does it mean to be King? Kuroo had grown up full of troublesome questions, but this was the very first he had asked Kenma about his future occupation.

It means you were born into a royal family, and were lucky enough not to be knocked off the line of succession—or lucky enough to be bumped up, depending on the circumstances. Kenma thought this was a fair enough definition. Perhaps it did not account for the actual ruling part, but was Kuroo asking about this in the ontological sense, or—

“Just that?”

Kenma blinked, nodded.

“Nothing to do with duty? Honor? The strength of will?”

“Those are such abstract concepts,” Kenma said crossly. “I don’t think they’re applicable to succession.”

“Not succession, Kenma.” Kuroo flopped down on the ground, wooden sword clattering beside him. Kenma lay down next to him. “Kinghood.”

The sky was bright and blue. If Kenma looked hard enough, he could spy a dragon-shaped cloud flying towards a white castle. Kinghood? If Kuroo was looking for an answer like honor or duty, Kenma truly couldn’t help him. But he had learned, over ten years of friendship, that Kuroo sometimes liked to ask questions with answers that had absolutely no bearing on reality whatsoever. 

“You’re thinking about how this is a useless question, right?”

“Yes.”

“Ha! I know you too well.” Kuroo turned to look at him. Kenma was already looking. “What about marriage, Kenma? What does it mean to be King, when you think of marriage?”

Kenma squinted at him.

“Isn’t this a different question? I’ll marry the most favorable match, based on Nekoma’s situation at the moment and the foreseeable future. I hope you’re not asking me to say something about love or anything like that.”

Kenma could. He had lessons specifically on how to say many flowery words about nothing, which he thinks might help if Kuroo insists on continuing this line of questioning. He was not well-suited to it, but he could do it if it was absolutely necessary.

“Well, last week you seemed to get along well with one of the lords from Karasuno. The short redhead. You were looking at him like you look at a new game board.” Kuroo had turned his face back to the sky. There was a strange, faraway note in Kuroo’s voice that Kenma had never heard before. And Kenma would know, because he knew Kuroo’s speech patterns by heart. “So I thought maybe you’d like to marry someone who makes you happy.”

There it was: an answer with no bearing on reality. Kenma could not understand. Happiness was sparring with Kuroo, round after round. Happiness was sneaking Kuroo in the kitchens so he could steal another dozen jam pies. Happiness was this, lying on the ground watching white clouds, Kuroo’s hand having found his own.

“Being King has nothing to do with happiness.”

Kuroo hugged him. Kenma thought it was a gesture of sympathy, so he hugged him back.

* * *

Kenma visits Kuroo every day at the hospital until the doctors clear him. Then he visits Kuroo every day in his chambers at the palace. Kenma very deliberately does not talk about Sarukawa at all.

When Kuroo is well enough, Kenma calls him again to the throne room.

“They’re going to take down the mountains to the north.” Kenma gestures to the map before him. “I’m sending you there ahead of time so when that happens, we’ll have fortifications that can make up for our loss of defensive structures. Are you up for it?”

Kuroo flicks a spark of red in the air in answer.

“Good. They’ve contracted the Nohebi mercenary forces, so things might get a little unpredictable there. And I would prefer to have some of the mountains stay intact, if possible.” Kenma sighs. “This kind of surprise attack means they have some extra offensive power. When it rears its head, you need to shut it down.”

He has not looked Kuroo in the eye for the entire duration of this meeting. The maps are still open before him, showing him the armies marching off into the future. It is true Kuroo is the only one whose analytical, magical, and physical abilities Kenma can trust for this particular mission. It is also true Kuroo has spent his entire life training to make it that way. 

Kenma grips the edge of the table hard enough to make his knuckles grow white. There are tufts of cotton multiplying in his lungs, crawling up his throat, pressing down on his chest. The physical pain is easier to focus on.

“Kenma. Breathe.”

The sound of rustling cloth makes Kenma turn his head. Kuroo has knelt down, his red cloak falling over his armor and spilling out on the floor. He looks at Kenma expectantly. Kenma walks to him. When Kenma arrives in front of him, he pulls his sword out of his scabbard and holds it upright to his right, head bowed low.

“You’ve done this already,” Kenma says, barely daring to inhale.

“Not in about three years, I think.” Then Kuroo had been thinner, although he had always been wiry from constant practice. He had sworn the oath with a smile on his face, like it was the best thing in the world, to be bound to the throne.

“I, Tetsurou of House Kuroo, pledge myself, body and soul, to my King. I shall live to be an extension of his rule, as the limb is an extension of the brain. I shall return only to my King, as blood returns and returns to the heart. To the end of my days and beyond, my loyalty shall belong only to Kozume Kenma. As the heart and the brain belong only to one body, and to one body only.”

Kenma extends a hand, and Kuroo kisses it.

“You’re supposed to say ‘the King of Nekoma’,” he mutters disapprovingly. He can feel Kuroo smile against his hand before he moves his face away from it so Kenma can hold it in turn.

“Do you swear to use the power granted to you to safeguard Nekoma’s people, and the lands that we call home?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to never deceive your King, and to guard the secrets of the King as though they were your own?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear to do all Nekoma needs you to do, and nothing less than all?”

“I do.”

“Then I, Kozume Kenma, King of Nekoma, accept your oath of fealty. May Nekoma always be a sanctuary worthy of your service. May I always be a King worthy of your loyalty.” Gold and red light flows between them, binding their hands together, seeping into Kuroo’s skin. Kenma watches the sparks recede, then lets go. “Rise, Kuro.”

Kuroo stands up, pushing his sword back into its scabbard. This time, Kenma does not refrain. He moves forward and plunges into Kuroo’s waiting arms, closing his eyes to breathe in the familiar scent of him, the surest sign of home. Kuroo’s hands leave deep creases in the velvet of Kenma’s robes. Kenma moves back a little, so they’re face-to-face, so close he can trace each lash fanning over Kuroo’s dark eyes. So close that when Kuroo exhales, the air ghosts over Kenma’s lips. It would be simple to truly let himself go and budge the last inch forward. Kuroo looks at him like he wishes he would. Kenma knows he wishes he would.

“You wouldn’t do this unless you believe there’s a chance I might not make it back. And I know you’ll still win this war even if I don’t,” Kuroo murmurs, his hand coming up to cup Kenma’s face. Kenma doesn’t dare to nod. “But I’ll come back to you, like I always do. You’ll see me here again when I return.”

Kenma steps back. He will not make it more difficult for the both of them. Kuroo’s hand lingers, sifting gently through his hair.

“See that you do, Kuro,” Kenma says softly.

Kuroo gives him one last nod before turning. When he walks away, the only red thing in the room is his cloak, trailing behind him. As always, Kenma sees it differently. There is red everywhere.

* * *

The evolution of Kuroo’s list of dance partners started like this: the first one had been Kenma, with wide eyes and cold hands.

The first dance he’d shared with Kuroo—outside of practice sessions under their tutor’s watchful eye—had been at the ball Nekoma had hosted to welcome visitors from Fukurodani. Kenma had been twelve; Kuroo had been thirteen. Kuroo had so feared to go that Kenma was wiping cooling sweat off his hands in his room as Kuroo’s father urged him to come outside.

“Lord Kuroo,” Kenma had said, stepping out the door. “Can I have a moment with him? We’ll be there shortly.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” There was an amused twist on Kuroo’s father’s face. Father and son had similarly impish faces, Kenma noted.

Kenma closed the door behind him, then went to kneel next to Kuroo.

“It’ll be fine,” Kenma said. “I hear Prince Koutarou is friendly.”

“What if I screw up?”

“Just dance with me, then.” Kenma shrugged. “I’ll cover for you if you mess up the steps.”

Kuroo looked at him, still wide-eyed. Kenma was already thinking about all the ways you could deviate from the steps of the waltz and how he could cover up and course-correct. Step forward at the same time; step aside, allow for the sudden protruding foot. Spin the wrong way; stop briefly and spin again. Suddenly Kuroo’s hands were on his shoulders, snapping Kenma back to reality. The worried lines of his face were warmly lit in the lamplight.

“I’ll be there with you. We can leave if it gets too overwhelming,” Kenma added.

He watched Kuroo’s expression grow resolute before he nodded. He and Kuroo weren’t like the Haiba siblings, who could unselfconsciously project their entire personalities into a room (for better or for worse) the moment they entered one; they weren’t like Kai, who was always perfectly amicable and graceful; they weren’t like Inuoka, who could fit in any scene with the power friendly charm alone. Therefore Kenma had his own doubts too. But he took Kuroo’s hand and walked all the way to the hall anyway.

Perhaps a certain type of person might appreciate the twinkling of the chandeliers or the deep crimson decorations draped over everything—Kenma was not that type of person. His ears honed in on the sounds of feet skittering over the floor. Hushed conversations, forced laughter. Prince Koutarou was seated at the far end, gesturing animatedly as he spoke to another boy in Fukurodani’s colors. Where would he and Kuroo fit?

“Do you want to just start dancing?” Kenma whispered to him. Kuroo nodded.

It was no surprise to Kenma that Kuroo did not make a single mistake on the dance floor. He had approached dancing lessons as he had magic, fencing, and navigation—with complete, unwavering focus. He had practiced the steps until Kenma, who’d quit hours ago, grew tired _watching_ him. 

Kuroo was still pale in the face. His grip was hurting Kenma’s hands, although Kenma would never tell him. He was dancing a flawless waltz without his nervous mind’s conscious input. There would be trouble if Kenma drew attention to that, too.

When they stopped dancing, the two boys from Fukurodani were looking expectantly at them, and the adults from both kingdoms were looking expectantly at the four of them, from their table near the windows. The others may miss it but Kenma did not.

“I want to dance with you!” Prince Koutarou bellowed like a foghorn, looking straight at Kuroo. Kuroo turned to Kenma.

“I think you should say yes. He was impressed,” Kenma whispered to him. He let his eyes wander to an empty table where he might sit while Kuroo danced. 

The other boy from Fukurodani cleared his throat. “Your Highness, if I may? It would be a great honor to dance with you.” He stepped forward, extending a hand. “My name is Akaashi Keiji.”

“Kozume Kenma,” he replied, entirely on instinct. Kenma glanced hurriedly at Kuroo, who was already being swept away by Prince Koutarou, who was somehow still chattering away as he danced. Kuroo was beginning to smile, however. Kenma took Akaashi’s hand.

By the end of the night, they were in the gardens, getting grass stains all over their finery. Kuroo had begun to tease Prince Koutarou, as he usually teased Kenma. It was warm; the chirping in the trees felt unusually pleasant. He wanted to say, then, you didn’t screw up, did you? Of course you didn’t. But by that time that was beside the point. 

The evolution of Kuroo’s list of dance partners went like this: first Kenma, with wide eyes and cold hands; then Bokuto, with smiles growing wider each year; then Yaku, and Kai, and Tora, and Fukunaga; then—by the time he was confident enough in his cheery jabs, when he’d come to fully grasp the effect of his narrowed gaze and crooked grin—Chieftain Daishou, to trade barbs with, the younger Lord Tsukishima, to trade _friendly_ barbs with, and Lord Sawamura, to tease.

The last was the newest addition before the removal of Kenma’s name from the list.

It was Kenma’s last year as a crown prince, although nobody but Lord Shishio knew that at the time. A song had just ended. Prince Atsumu was already waiting at the edge of the dance floor for Shouyou, who stepped out of Kenma’s hold with a cheerful _thanks for the dance, Kenma!_ Kenma thought he could ask Shouyou to play his new board game with him later, if Atsumu hadn’t already stolen him away.

Kenma took in Miya Atsumu. He was taller and roguishly handsome, although Kenma thought his personality could be a little off-putting. Then again, Shouyou did not seem to mind. This was more of a feature of Shouyou’s gracious friendliness than any pleasant quirk of Prince Atsumu’s disposition. Kenma would have to be wary of him nevertheless.

He spotted Kuroo at the periphery of his vision, bowing deeply to Lord Sawamura, who looked confused, flustered, and enraged in equal measures. When Kuroo stood again at his full height, Lord Sawamura seemed unable to choose which part of Kuroo to focus on. In the ceremonial maroon uniform, Kuroo’s broad shoulders and heroic proportions—hard-earned through endless training sessions—were even more lethal to visiting nobles. Kenma thought Kuroo almost had too much fun with that fact.

As though he could detect when Kenma noticed him, Kuroo turned his head then made his way over. There was a satisfied grin on his face that probably had something to do with the way Lord Sawamura could not properly get his bearings as he made his way back to his table.

“Kenma!” Kuroo was already taking his hand. Kenma let him. “Dance with me?”

The song started. Moving in sync with Kuroo was muscle memory at this point.

“You seem distracted.” Kuroo had his head closer to Kenma’s ear than the waltz called for. Without thinking of it, Kenma had fit in neatly with the firm lines of Kuroo’s body. “Thinking of the new game board Tora and Shouhei got you?”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

Kuroo chuckled lowly. Kenma felt the rumble of it on his own chest.

“Her Majesty went to all this trouble today so you could scope out potential matches, you know. Can’t do that if you’re thinking of that game all the time.”

“I’ve been scoping,” Kenma said sullenly, suddenly resenting the fact that he had turned twenty-one.

“Oh? And how are the prospects, Your Highness? To your liking?”

Kenma hummed. “Miya Osamu is pleasant enough, but my father was from House Kita, so it doesn’t seem necessary to marry into any Inarizaki lines. Akaashi and Bokuto are here, but we can count on their allyship even without a marriage.”

“Itachiyama?”

“Prince Kiyoomi’s difficult,” Kenma said after Kuroo spinned him. “But Lord Komori seems open to the idea. I do think it’s better to go for someone across the sea, though. More effective.”

Kuroo’s hand on his waist guided them in a slow turn. “So, Karasuno? Aoba Johsai? Date or Shiratorizawa?”

“Karasuno,” Kenma confirmed. “Shouyou, specifically. Although I think Atsumu is in love with him.”

“And Shrimpy himself?” Kuroo had moved a little so they were now looking each other in the eye.

“In love with Prince Tobio.” He shifted so Kuroo could have a view of the prince and princess of Karasuno, sitting regally away from the dance floor. Princess Kiyoko had danced with Kuroo earlier. Prince Tobio had not left his seat all night, although his eyes followed Shouyou everywhere he went.

“They might just get married, then, you know,” Kuroo said, a little wistfully. His hand had come up to run through Kenma’s hair. He tucked a loose lock behind his ear. This was also not in the waltz, but Kenma found he did not care much.

“That would be unwise. We’ve just renewed our relations, so Karasuno should at least look to give our alliance a little permanence. Shouyou is their best bet, as everyone knows we get along. He knows it too.”

“Unwise,” Kuroo echoed, staring intently at Kenma. Kenma did not want to talk about this with him. He did not want to talk about this with the person he had always thought he could have by his side, even when he took the throne. With Kuroo’s bloodline, Kuroo’s proven ability, Kuroo’s unwavering loyalty—he’d always thought the crown could not take Kuroo away from him, until the moment his mother and her advisors decided otherwise. It was uncharacteristically cruel of Kuroo to want to discuss the matter so thoroughly.

“I’ve talked about this with Shouyou, in case you wanted to know.”

“Would it be so unwise, if he married Prince Tobio?”

Questions with answers that had no bearing on reality. Those were Kuroo’s specialty.

“Kuro. Why are you asking me this?” 

Kuroo regarded him with a steady gaze. They rocked slowly for a moment, to the rhythm of the music, but all was silent in Kenma’s head. There was only the heat of Kuroo’s palm against his, the firm assurance of Kuroo’s hand on his waist.

“Would it be so unwise,” Kuroo enunciated this slowly, as though afraid to finish his thought, then barrelled on so quickly Kenma almost didn’t catch the rest of it, “for you to marry me instead?”

The marble floor fell out from beneath Kenma’s feet.

“Kenma,” he continued in a shaking voice, leaning in again to murmur in Kenma’s ear. “Even if it’s unwise, would you just consider it?”

“I already have,” Kenma answered. He felt the hitch in Kuroo’s breath. The song ended and Kenma stepped away from Kuroo, who let him go. “Kuro, I’ve told you before that being King has nothing to do with happiness.”

Kuroo had schooled his features back to neutrality, as befit his status. To any bystander they must seem like they were having a normal conversation. “Does it have to be that way?”

“We have to get used to it.” He looked up at Kuroo. This was no longer Kenma’s childhood bedroom where they could pretend to vanquish dragons. This was no longer the garden where they could entertain Kuroo’s meandering questions without worry. “Thank you for the dance, Kuro. I think it’s best if we don’t touch each other anymore.”

Afterwards, Kuroo excused himself, claiming exhaustion from dancing with the esteemed Sawamura Daichi. Kenma went outside with two full glasses. Shouyou was leaning on the balcony railing, his hair bright under the moonlight. He turned to smile at Kenma but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Prince Tobio’s waiting for you to ask him to dance, Shouyou.”

“No one else is, huh? That’s Kageyama for you! So unapproachable. You think it’d kill him to smile.” Kenma took a sip and said nothing, handing Shouyou the other glass. Shouyou gulped down a worrying amount of mead. Then, in a softer voice: “I don’t think I can ask him, knowing it’ll never be me he ends up with.”

They were quiet together. Inside, the festivities continued. The ball was meant to be a celebration of Kenma’s twenty-first birthday. Kenma did not feel celebrated in the least bit. Somewhere in the palace, Kuroo was probably brooding. Kenma wished to be by his side. He could not be.

“It’s not like I don’t like the thought of getting married to you or Atsumu. I think it would be nice, actually. I just wouldn’t be with Kageyama.” Shouyou let out a harsh exhale. “Sorry to dump all this on you during your birthday party, Kenma.”

“Don’t worry. Talk as much as you need to. I’m here.”

He was, he thought, as the sound of music and laughter flowed in from the bright hall inside. It was counterproductive to stay upset about the things he could not change. The strength of an alliance was, on balance, less abstract than something like love. He didn’t know if it was his own character or his upbringing that made him aware of this. For better or for worse, he was here, in many senses of the word.

* * *

The doorman announces Yaku’s arrival.

Yaku’s hair is a little ruffled, but it often is. He has already shed the armor for his usual white robes. He could be coming back from a stroll in the gardens or a meal in the hall. Yaku is one of those people Kenma’s mother used to say has strength written in his eyes; Kenma has been unable to define this, even now, but he has long accepted it as true.

“Kenma,” he says, as he kneels down on the floor. Sometimes Kenma wonders why they bother. “I bring news of success from the northern front. Fukunaga is still there, holding up the fort, but we have managed to prevent the destruction of part of the Hanami mountains. Kuroo has also obliterated two of Sarukawa’s special divisions, likely major strike forces readying themselves for a lightning assault.”

“Lord Morisuke of House Yaku,” Kenma says. He knows Yaku will be heading back out again in a matter of days, but, as Kuroo has once told him, sometimes the words act as a balm, when you’ve just exhausted yourself in battle. “Your service has kept Nekoma safe and strong for another day. You have the people’s gratitude. The Kingdom of Nekoma welcomes you home.”

Yaku nods, then rises to his feet.

“I’ll come with you to the hospital.” Kenma places his staff by the side of his throne and unclips his golden cloak. When the look on Yaku’s face changes to one of defeat, he almost stops talking. But he doesn’t, in case he is finally wrong about one of his friends. In case his perceptiveness has finally failed him. In case his cautiousness has given way to pessimism. “I need to see the condition Kuro is in, if he can’t stubbornly be the first to see me as always.”

Yaku does not give him a second to remain in the deceitful clutches of hope.

“Kuroo is not in the hospital, Kenma-kun,” he says, softly. “We couldn’t find him, afterwards.”

The blow of it is like a boulder to the head. The floor, the ceiling, the walls are all red.

* * *

There was a gold flash in the air behind Kuroo as Kenma sent an attack headed for the base of his spine back to its source. He jumped to Kuroo’s side.

“Stop leaving your back open.”

“You’re here to cover for me,” Kuroo retorted, and Kenma clicked his tongue at him even as he deflected more bursts of energy, letting Kuroo charge a wide-ranging slash of his sword.

The shockwave gave them a second’s reprieve. Kenma reached for Kuroo’s hand, passing him a current of magic, and watched him push it in a forceful wave in the direction of advancing opponents. It knocked them clean into the ground, and Kuroo howled with triumph.

Afterwards they stood with their heads bowed together over a map. Kenma traced the enemy’s movements over the course of the day on it with his finger. Magic left a scorched trail on the paper where his fingertip had been.

“How will tomorrow be?” Kuroo asked, leaning in over the soft light cast by Kenma’s other hand. Kenma was around him so much that he often forgot Kuroo had grown up handsome. This was one of the times when Kuroo’s face made it very difficult to forget. When the light shaped soft shadows around his jaw and traced the slope of his nose, Kenma thought marble would be inadequate. “Kenma?”

He startled. Kuroo had caught him watching and was now watching back, a small smile on his face. Kenma ducked his head down and brought himself back into the battleground, then told Kuroo about tomorrow before they went to bed.

When he woke, Kuroo was already awake and looking at him from under hooded eyelids, but he tore his eyes away the moment he realized Kenma was conscious. They were on different beds, but there was a feverish shiver making its way across Kenma’s skin as though he’d woken up with Kuroo’s arms around him.

“First light,” Kenma noted. “We should start moving.”

Kuroo clasped the fastenings of Kenma’s breastplate; his hands trailed swaths of warmth over Kenma’s back. Careful hands pulled up Kenma’s hair gently, sweeping back every stray strand, and tied all of it in a neat knot at the back of his head. There was no sound but the chirping of the birds, chorusing like they had forgotten the carnage of the day before. By the time it got dark again, the sky would be completely silent. Songbirds did not linger on battlefields.

Outside the tent, Kenma stayed close to Kuroo, saying very little, avoiding the gaze of the soldiers starting to line up. He did not like yelling orders, not when Kuroo could do it better. He knew the soldiers found more confidence in Kuroo’s booming voice and sure eye. Whatever adjustments they had to make, Kuroo could understand in the blink of an eye. They did not need words.

“Listen up, everybody!” Kuroo’s voice rang out, clear as a bell. The troops straightened all at once. Kenma turned his eye to the horizon. Today, victory was certain.

By nightfall, they had won decisively; by dawn, Kuroo and Kenma were rushing back to the capital. Queen Kozume had been found in her study, slumped over her desk. Kenma’s time away from the crown was up.

* * *

Kenma had planned Nekoma to be a kingdom that is more than the sum of its parts. Meaning: it is stronger than one Lord, than one division. Meaning: they are capable of winning, even with the loss of one Kuroo Tetsurou.

It has been a while since Kenma had been on the front lines. As in chess, there is a tacit agreement in the ranks of Nekoma’s nobility—no one is indispensable but the king. It has been a while since Kenma was in charge of troops without Kuroo’s voice to carry out his commands; it has been a while since Kenma felt the crackling of battle magic in his veins. He leads the Sarukawa army on a merry chase with reckless-seeming bursts of power Kuroo might have been the source of, if he had returned. Kuroo would have played the role better, but he is no longer at Kenma’s disposal. It has been a while since Kenma bled.

Some people say kings are born. Kenma staunchly disagrees. To be born to a royal line is to become a self-fulfilling prophecy. You are born to be king, and despite whatever reservations you may have, you are stuffed with lessons and training and war games and maps and books until there is nothing in your head but the ability to be king. You do not see the grandeur of a marching division, only its utility in the field. You are told that marriage is a matter of alliance-building and that love is the futile fruit of ego. 

Your father was capable of nothing but discipline and your mother was the kingdom in a woman. They had not been in love. They’d been an alliance, and it had been strong. If Kenma had been born to any other family, he would not know how to read Sarukawa’s frustration and desperation well enough to anticipate their steps. This is not by way of blood, but by way of upbringing. Kenma had wanted to be a scribe or a smith. Kenma had wanted to play with Kuroo. Then to love him. They raised him as a king anyway.

Kings are born, then made.

By the time Sarukawa notices they are spread thin from targeting Nekoma’s king, they are too late. Kenma takes a second to smile at General Shiramine when a messenger braves the firing of spells to open an envelope and hand him its contents. Tora is already waiting in Fukurodani with his army. The Nohebi tribe’s opportunistic nature had fallen to Kai and Yaku’s superior negotiating skills, letting Lev pass through Itachiyama and beyond unharmed. 

Kenma is so worn out that Shibayama has to hem and haw in his place for about a week before he recovers enough to sign the armistice, and even then, by the time he returns to Nekoma, he collapses. Kenma has the mountains back. Kenma has their territories back. 

He has won the war. Nobody feels any need to discuss what he has lost.

“Ready a ship,” he tells Lev weakly, still on his bed. Lev looks like he’s about to protest, but Kenma keeps going. “We’re sailing to Karasuno. I’ll be asking for Shouyou’s hand in marriage.”

* * *

The palace is not as it is. When you are much younger, everything seems so much bigger. Growing up, Kenma had often had little moments of shock when a staircase he hadn’t climbed in a long time seemed shorter than before; he could reach the top of a wardrobe he used to always fail to climb.

Kenma is in the palace, but it is the version of it when all the furniture seemed larger than life and the halls might have stretched on forever. Even then, he had always known where Kuroo would hide. 

“I keep remembering it wrong,” says a voice by the window. Kenma spins to face the source. Kuroo leans on a wall, hair falling over his face as usual. “I keep trying to conjure this place, hoping it’ll get me to you, but I keep getting it wrong. It seems to work anyway, though. You’re here.”

“Kuro,” he says. It’s all he can say.

Kuroo pushes himself off the wall and walks towards him. Kenma marvels at the memory he must have of this man, if his dream is able to conjure him to such a stunning level of detail. Light comes in from the stained glass windows, casting colored shapes on Kuroo’s skin. Heedless, Kenma traces them.

“You would’ve never done this, before,” Kuroo murmurs.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

Kenma follows the slope of Kuroo’s nose with his fingertip, then traces the bow of his mouth.

“You know the kind of magic it takes to try to take an entire range of mountains out of existence, Kenma?” Kuroo whispers. Kenma shakes his head. “Me neither. That’s why I’m figuring it out. But once I do, you’ll have me back, I swear.”

There is not much he can do but nod.

“I’m not a whiz with the magic theory like you are, but give me some time, okay? I’ll figure it out.” This is a blatant lie. The only reason Kenma had so many magic theory lessons in his life had been Kuroo’s interest in it. He had been incredibly insecure about it, hence why Kenma had promised to accompany him to every single class. He’d followed through. “Unless you don’t want me to.”

“Of course I want you to. Don’t say strange things.”

Kuroo smiles at that. “Then leave a beacon for me? When you sleep, and you dream, remember to turn on a light, so I can know where you are.”

“I’m always in the palace,” Kenma protests.

“That’s not the kind of ‘where’ I meant. Humor me? Just try it. Light a torch.”

Kenma extends a hand to his right and sees Kuroo’s eye track his motions. He sets his hand ablaze in golden flames. Sparks float up, disappearing before he can see them reach the ceiling. “Like this?”

“Exactly like that.”

This is a dream, right? So he’s allowed to do whatever he wants. Kenma closes his eyes, moves closer to Kuroo. A hand on his shoulder stops him.

“Not yet,” Kuroo says. “Not until I meet you again for real.”

Kenma wakes up to Shouyou’s sleeping face across him. The dawn has only started to break. There is no light in the room yet. Even in the darkness, the roosters crow to greet the arrival of the sun.

He closes his eyes again. The dream doesn’t pick up where it left off.

* * *

Kenma is always happy to see the Prince Consort of Nekoma go. Every six months Shouyou gets to return to his beloved Karasuno and the sullen Prince Tobio for half a year. Kenma will not be like Queen Kozume; he and Shouyou are a strong alliance, but Shouyou shall remain in love.

At the pier, Shouyou hugs him. His hair shines like polished copper, and his eyes are bright. Shouyou is beautiful enough that Atsumu’s attention is entirely warranted, but he is at his most beautiful when he knows he is about to meet the love of his life. He had accepted Kenma’s proposal the moment Kenma told him he would never fall for him, so he was free to love Prince Tobio as he wished.

Shouyou had looked at him with gleaming eyes. “Thanks, fiancé. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“You’re welcome,” Kenma said then. It is not too late for Shouyou.

Shouyou waves at him from the ship as it moves away from Nekoma, Inuoka excitedly jumping up and down next to him. He has six months to be with the one he loves the most. Kenma had twenty years, and he squandered them all. The wind picks up the edge of Kenma’s crimson cloak and lays it out so it flutters like a flag, the standard of a ship docking in its home port.

During peacetime, kinghood is still a matter of data-gathering. Checking which regions’ harvests have to be distributed to where. Checking which regions’ children are sickly, and with what. A kingdom is a balance sheet. Kenma balances the totals. Nekoma flourishes if you do what is necessary, as is the job of a king. 

Occasionally, someone would drop in for dinner or lunch. Lev and Alisa sometimes bring fish from the coast. Yaku bursts in with pastries. Tora and Shouhei keep the palace overwhelmed with stocks of fruit. It’s almost like, in Kuroo’s absence, the rest of them have decided they’ve inherited the mantle of making sure Kenma eats well and talks to people.

Kenma eats well and talks to people. If he lies in bed feeling hollow after his friends have departed, it is better that they never find out. If he wraps himself up in the cloak as he sleeps, nobody has to know but Shouyou. And Shouyou knows better than to say anything.

If he dreams again, of Kuroo by the sea, of Kuroo in the gardens, of Kuroo in the library, no one has to know that, either.

It had been a mistake to fill every hall of this estate with memories of him and Kuroo, although Kenma could not have known it at the time. They had played hide-and-seek in every wing of the palace. They had feasted on peaches in the gardens. They had sparred by every stable barn to the point of collapsing, giggling at each other madly. Kuroo had learned to dance in the room in the North Wing, his hand clammy in Kenma’s, until their practices seemed routine, until Kuroo was spinning him confidently the night before balls. Kuroo had helped roll out the maps of the region in the library as Kenma took notes in his scrolls, listened patiently as Kenma sounded out his theories. 

Kuroo had fastened the brooch on his golden cloak the day of the coronation, his hand lingering on Kenma’s shoulder, his gaze staying on him all day.

Kai had asked whether Kenma would like to keep the painting of Kuroo in the main hall—just between the ones of Kai and Yaku—somewhere less conspicuous. Kenma had declined. The entire palace is a reminder of Kuroo’s absence; what is one more?

The painting ensures Kenma will never forget the curve of Kuroo’s smile, the dark slant of his eyes. He has already started to forget Kuroo’s voice. In some ways this is a blessing.

Two weeks after Shouyou’s departure, Yaku enters the throne room, back first. Kenma had summoned him to play a new game board Shouyou had devised just last week, but Yaku does not usually enter a room back first. He is pointing his sword at someone in a dark cloak. The figure is flanked by Tora and Inuoka, each readying a crackling ball of magic.

“What’s going on?” Kenma asks.

“Kenma,” Yaku says without turning around. “This man claims to be Kuroo Tetsurou.”

Kenma’s first thought is that he will kill the impostor with his own two hands. Kenma’s second thought is a treacherous spark of hope. He raises his hand and casts a spell to dispel illusions. Nothing happens. He casts a spell to decloak what is hidden. Nothing happens.

“It’s me, Kenma,” says Kuroo’s voice. So that’s what he sounds like.

“The spells aren’t showing anything, Yaku-san. Please let him speak.”

Yaku moves aside, sword still pointed at him. The figure is nothing near like the man in the dashing portrait in the hall of the royal palace of Nekoma. He is so thin his cheeks have collapsed into his face; his hair falls over his eye, down past his shoulder. But Kenma would recognize those eyes anywhere. As they find him, it seems the man recognizes him back.

“When you asked me how I felt about the crown.” Kenma keeps his voice steady. “What did I say?”

“It seems counterproductive to stay upset. And that you’ll let me know when it matters.”

Kenma glances at Yaku. Yaku’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

“I am Tetsurou of House Kuroo,” the man says, only looking at Kenma. He only ever looks at Kenma. “I’ve been your friend since before we were old enough to even have memories. You were with me at my first ball, where Prince Koutarou of Fukurodani befriended me. Whenever you greet me back after a battle, you change the words ‘the Kingdom of Nekoma welcomes you home’ to ‘I welcome you home’.” The man is raking his eyes over the cloak Kenma wears. If he is who he says he is, it belongs to him. “When you turned twenty-one, your mother threw a ball in your honor. I asked you to marry me. You said no.”

Kenma’s heart hammers against his chest.

“Why did I say no?”

“Because you said it would be unwise.” The man looks immeasurably sad, and in this instant, Kenma believes him. “Because you said being King has nothing to do with happiness.”

Kenma closes his eyes. For a long moment there is nothing here but everything he has denied Kuroo. For years. Every time he could’ve kissed Kuroo, before he turned to leave the throne room. Every dance they could have had with no audience. He opens his eyes. There is everything he can give now.

“Yaku-san, Tora, Inuoka. Leave us. And have a bed ready in the hospital. We’ll need him to be fed and comfortable when he explains the circumstances of his return.”

They leave; Kenma thinks he spies Yaku’s eyes start to fill with tears, although he’s sure Yaku will deny it later. When Kenma and Kuroo are alone, he remains kneeling on the floor, looking up at Kenma with bright eyes. The red on the walls recedes. The red on the floor evaporates.

“You’re still thinking of that game board over there, aren’t you?”

“Am not.”

“Are too,” says Kuroo, now smiling a little.

Kenma’s heart twists.

“Am _not_ , because you’ve come back from the _dead_ , Kuro.” He looks at the bone protruding in Kuro’s arm. “You’re once again in need of medical attention.”

Kuroo grins. Kenma falls to his knees in front of him, burying his hands in Kuroo’s hair, breathing in the earthy scent of Kuroo’s skin. The data had not indicated this possibility. Kuroo returning is something beyond destiny. Kenma had never been much for hope, only probability—and yet today it seems to spit in his face as a concept. You should have had some stock in me. You should have believed. The universe is made of possibilities you cannot keep track of alone.

“I know. It’s always worth it when I see you. Now,” he says, taking Kenma’s hand in his, “will you say the words?”

Kenma nods, breathing deeply. He murmurs against Kuroo’s lips, no longer planning to refrain. “Lord Tetsurou of House Kuroo, your service has kept Nekoma safe and strong for another day. You have the people’s gratitude." Kuroo's hands are gentle on his arm, holding him where he is, not quite pulling him in. Like he's waiting. He has always been waiting. "I welcome you home.”

The grin is still on Kuroo's face. He looks too joyful for a man who seems so brittle.

“I told you so. I told you I’d come back to you. If Nekoma needs you to tell me to go again,” he says, pausing expectantly.

“I’ll tell you to go,” Kenma answers. Even if it means ordering Kuroo to the doors of death again. Even if it means losing him to win a war.

“And I’ll go, as I’ve sworn to. But I’ll come back, like I always do, to hear you welcome me home.”

It’s impossible to tell which of them moves first. They sink to the floor, never separating, even as Kuroo’s fingers reverently part the strands of Kenma’s hair, even as his hands move to pull Kenma closer by the cloak that once was his. Here, in the fading light, kissing Kuroo is not about kinghood, not about destiny, not even about happiness. After years of being King of Nekoma, Kenma is finally home.


End file.
